Sweet Wrappers
by FireBringer
Summary: A oneshot of sweet wrappers, ugly secrets, and Neville’s wavering belief.


Title: **Sweet Wrappers**

Author: FireBringer

Summary: A one-shot of sweet wrappers, an ugly secret, and Neville's wavering belief.

Written For: The **Dark Secrets** challenge at FictionNet. "_I suggest a challenge about creating a secret. As in, unveil a secret about a character we all know and love (or despise). For example, Hermione teaching herself "dark" magic. A reach, I know. The catch is... stay in character. You cannot disregard the books to make your story work. Previous years (1-6) are suggested, but 7th allowed."_

**This is my entry. **

* * *

He has always believed. Like a fool, many would say, like a little boy, sat in the jaws of darkness and still seeing the light. Believed that the radiance would return to their eyes and the warmth to their touch, warmth that was comfortable and not so awkward and unfamiliar. But he did not want to believe. He despised that he was so naïve and that the desperation curled like a mother around the little boy inside of him.

"Neville."

The sharp voice turned him, broke him from his thoughts, and he blushed beneath her scrutiny. "Yes, Gran?"

She surveyed him, black eyes piercing, and then dismissed whatever she had seen. He wished he could have held that dark gaze, but many things scared him, and she was one of the main objects of his fear.

"Come. It's time to go." She commanded, turning sharply towards the fireplace, and like a puppet on string he turned too and followed, slightly less gracefully, and he hated that an old woman was more controlled than him. But that was just the way he was, the way of his family, his mother.

There was a dizzy whirl of colour that took hold of him, catapulted somewhere bright and wonderful and generally sickening. He shut his eyes against it and toppled onto a pristine floor, bowling over a young witch on the other side.

"I'm…I'm sor-sorry." He stammered, blushing as his grandmother scolded him in front of the pretty Medi-Witch. The witch rolled her eyes and carried on her way, oblivious to the eyes that followed her.

He has always believed that good things will come your way, if you in turn are good to things. If you let hope fill your being and laughter and things that are altogether lovely, then you will be rewarded. You will be treasured. You will be given, above all, _life_.

"Yes, yes, Alice dear, that's very nice…" Gran was saying distractedly, patting the frail woman on the head as she pawed at her mother's cloak, humming under her breath. Neville watched, head hung low, sightlessly hoping against hope that her eyes would connect with his and be…_there_. Recognition, familiarity, love.

He glanced at his father. The tall figure stood at the wall, facing the corner, muttering faceless shadows beneath his breath. A fractured statue of glorious past. He was not like this carved shape at all. He was not so powerful, or so brave, or so wonderful. At least, he hadn't been. Now he wasn't like this carved shape because he wasn't made of shadow, because he saw things that were really there, because his eyes were focused. Sharp. True.

The formidable woman called Gran told him many times not to be ashamed of them. They had been brave and wonderful to give such a sacrifice. But Neville found that he loved and despised them for it. Loving them for being brave and wonderful but despising them for being brave and stupid. For leaving him here with but a ghost of their past selves.

"Neville, come and talk to your mother while I discuss the next treatments with Foxworth." Gran ordered, already striding across the room towards a young wizard, slit-like eyes surveying the room before the door shut with a muted snap.

The Healers told them that they were Making Progress everyday. Neville didn't see this progress, but hoped for it anyway. He wondered if Voldemort knew they were 'Making Progress'. Because Making Progress could be a hindrance to him. Making Progress could just be the tilt to the balance of his war. He wondered if Voldemort would send in some of his DeathEaters to kill them, just to be sure and safe. Safe and sure.

It wouldn't be hard. Alice and Frank Longbottom were very simple creatures now, built on complex Spells that made them that way. A twisted contradiction. Neville tightened his fingers around his wand, not his father's anymore, as his mother pottered over to some flowers and suddenly ducked her head, hunching, moaning, shivering. So, so easy…

He found himself, as always, hoping that Voldemort would kill them, just to put them out of their misery. A hope that clung to his Belief like a stubborn bloodstain against sharp white. A brutally honest part of him selfishly hoped that Voldemort would kill them to put him out of _his_ misery. An unwanted word that burned on painted lips and blistered inside, demented and ugly.

He has always believed that, if you wish hard enough, anything can come true. But he knew that you had to work for it, too. And Neville wasn't a killer. His fingers loosened. He was brave in other ways and that belief kicked the ugliness to the deepest, darkest cave inside of him to let it fester alone, with no thought, until the next time he came. And then he would watch and suffer, just like always, and his hand would whiten and flinch towards his wand, a yawning ache in his chest.

But he'd never do anything. Only think it and berate himself afterwards for being so sucked into that sticky black mess of sorrow that clung and suffocated the Spell Damage ward.

His Gran rushed towards her daughter and seemed to envelope the frail woman in her arms, gently guiding her to her bed, and his father looked up and shuffled over and people were suddenly surrounding his mother, faces anxious, until she recovered and was once again offering him treasured sweet wrappers that he slipped into his breast-pocket, next to his ugly little secret, where they could shield him from its darkness, a small gift of love and warmth to cherish forever.


End file.
